


Wager

by Viscariafields



Series: Leandra Hawke [27]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol, Banter, Dragon Age II - Act 3, F/M, bisexual disasters being bisexual disasters, varric puts up with a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28114374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viscariafields/pseuds/Viscariafields
Summary: In incredibly stupid conversation that ends in an incredibly stupid bet (originally posted on tumblr, now with an ending to the wager)~“Admit it,” Hawke said, “You think he’s sexy.”Fenris choked on his ale—actually choked on it while Hawke regretfully rubbed his back. Minutes passed before he could formulate and deliver a response without his lungs burning, and the object of her senselessness had long since left. “I do not.”“He thinks you’re sexy,” she asserted baselessly, “I’m sure of it. All those years of pent-up anger are probably just frustration that someone so wrong about everything is so good-looking.”“You think Anders is good looking?” Fenris asked, a curl to his lip.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke
Series: Leandra Hawke [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1462840
Comments: 11
Kudos: 34





	Wager

“Admit it,” Hawke said, “You think he’s sexy.”

Fenris choked on his ale—actually choked on it while Hawke regretfully rubbed his back. Minutes passed before he could formulate and deliver a response without his lungs burning, and the object of her senselessness had long since left. “I do not.”

“He thinks you’re sexy,” she asserted baselessly, “I’m sure of it. All those years of pent-up anger are probably just frustration that someone so wrong about everything is so good-looking.”

“You think Anders is good looking?” Fenris asked, a curl to his lip.

She dismissed that with a wave of a hand. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you and what you think.”

She watched him over the top of his tankard while he rolled his eyes. “He’s… skinny. And a jackass.”

“So your type isn’t lanky?”

A distraction might get her off this ridiculous topic, so he leaned forward in his seat, laced his fingers with hers, and dropped his voice low. “ _You’re_ my type.”

“Mm,” she hummed, “An expert dodge. But we both know I’m not your _only_ type. You weren’t the only one here who strongly considered Isabela’s offers, and I wasn’t the only one to admire the Arishok’s physique all those years ago.”

He dropped her hand. “Or Anders’ ‘physique’, apparently.”

“He has a nice nose,” she replied delicately. 

Fenris scoffed.

“Don’t worry. Yours is still my favorite,” she assured him with a half-smile that never failed to twist something deep and savory in his belly.

He felt himself smiling despite himself. “So you’ve said.”

“And you’ve not said who of our friends you find sexy.”

“I have never called anyone ‘sexy’ in my life.”

“Doesn’t meant you don’t think they are,” she prodded.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

Finding her tankard empty, Hawke swiped his and took a drink. “Probably not, no. Unless you can come up with a better diversion for the evening. Maker’s breath, don’t tell me you fancy Sebastian.”

He smirked at her. “He’s a fine-looking fellow, Hawke.”

“And doesn’t he know it,” she griped.

“Ah, yes, the Champion of Kirkwall, well known for her humility. Never has she wielded a pretty smile like a weapon to lay men and women low.”

“Is his smile prettier than mine?” she asked. “Go on, be honest. I won’t be absolutely devastated if you say yes. Promise.”

Hawke was generally better at placing traps and telling lies. She must really have been bored this evening.

“You want the absolute truth?” Fenris leaned in again, and Hawke mirrored him. He licked his lips, slowly, and watched her gaze drop to them. “When I first met you,” he rumbled deep in his throat, “The one who caught my eye was Varric.”

Hawke’s grin spread slowly across her face. Then she slapped her hand on the table and said, “Fuck, you have good taste. I knew it.”

Fenris laughed, full-throated and easy. “What can I say? Neither a one of us has chest hair like that.”

She nodded seriously. “That’s a good and important point. If I looked like that, I’d probably show it off, too. And I must admit I’ve always wanted to run a hand through it. Just once.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You never have?”

“Don’t tell me _you_ have!”

He shook his head, waving down a serving girl for fresh ales. Hawke was a good customer—she came quickly.

“I think I may have found a new diversion for this evening,” Hawke said through steepled fingers.

Fenris hazarded a guess. “I imagine it involves us competing to touch Varric’s chest hair?”

“Only with his express permission, of course,” she said. “How you get that permission is up to you.”

Fenris grinned into his tankard, taking a slow draft.

“You’re on.”

Hawke’s first strategy failed miserably. Handkerchief in one hand, half-full tankard of ale in the other, she walked up to Varric, “tripped,” and dumped the ale all over him just as he turned his back to her to retrieve bejeweled knife he had won off a pirate in a game of Wicked Grace to show her. She dabbed at his sopping tunic apologetically, nowhere near the coveted chest hair, and Varric excused himself to change his clothes in his suite.

Fenris cocked an eyebrow, and Hawke could _feel_ his judgement at her sloppy attempt.

He didn’t make any moves when Varric came back down, however, so Hawke tried again.

“Varric, is that a louse just there?” she asked, pointing at his chest with a concerned look, “Here, let me pick it out for you.”

“What?” he covered his chest with his hands, then promptly ran back up to his quarters. Foiled again.

“What the fuck, Hawke?” he hissed when he came back. Lowering his voice even further, he growled, “I do _not_ have _lice._ ”

“My mistake,” she murmured, cheeks burning just the slightest. 

Fenris snorted into his ale, and Hawke seethed in his direction. He supposed he could do better, did he?

Apparently he did, and could, because he said, “Varric, I have a strange request.”

Varric was only too happy to divert his attention from Hawke. “Lay it on me, elf.”

“An interesting turn of phrase. I was wondering if I could touch your chest hair. Elves can’t grow any, and I’ve never had the pleasure.”

Varric stared at him hard before his gaze slid over to Hawke. She kept a straight face under his scrutiny, but only just. “I’m going to say yes, but only because I get the feeling that that answer will annoy Hawke.”

“Your assumption is correct,” Fenris said, stretching a hand out, “So this should be mutually enjoyable for us both.” Hawke scowled in dismay, irritation, and not a small amount of titillated interest as Fenris caressed the hair adorning her Varric’s impressive and expansive chest. Varric rolled his eyes, and though Fenris was quietly crowing, Hawke had the strangest feeling that somehow she hadn’t suffered a complete loss of this wager. There was something tender about watching her lover gently fondle her best friend’s exposed skin. She decided the entire thing would be kept as a cherished memory to revisit.

Varric sighed. “Hawke, if you wanted to touch my chest, you could have just asked.” 

She jumped at the chance. “Can I?”

“Yes, go for it, I don’t care.”

Fenris still hadn’t removed his hand, so both of them explored the novelty of chest hair together while Varric… looked neither comfortable nor terribly uncomfortable with the evening’s activity.

“What in the Maker’s ice-cold balls is happening here?” Isabela asked them with a quirked brow. Before anyone could muster an answer she added, “And can I join in?”


End file.
